


when i'm ready to be bolder comfort will rest on my shoulder

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Homelessness, M/M, i'm undecided, lilo is a bromance, maybe none, narry is a romance, plenty of it, zouis or ziam?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-11-26 18:40:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn is homeless, jobless, and fucking miserable, So when an intervention in the shape of two boys sitting on the curb explodes into his life, he allows himself a little hope and an obscene amount of trust that maybe everything’ll be alright.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 0 - Dreams and Statistics

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from gabrielle aplin - home :)  
> inspired by the "homeless zayn" tag on tumblr :') woops.  
> sorry for the shit summary but  
> oh and uhm...changing this up a bit, but the basics are still the same i guess, what with a homless zayn being taken in by one or more of the other lads.. :)

Zayn Malik is just one of countless youths, teenagers, _kids_ , who has unwittingly fallen victim to the very much glorified ideology of a Dream. He flies the security of the nest, namely _Bradford_ , with eyes wide as china clay saucers and wings still covered in velvety down to pursue a dreamy career in an even dreamier city.

Full of all the naivety that resides within any nineteen year old that dreams are completely achievable, Zayn Malik catches a train at his local station and within mere hours is roaming with his amber eyes bug wide and awed through this _dreamydreamydreamy_ city he’d previously only seen snippets of on tourist pamphlets his parents brought back from their many, many, _many_ “business” trips there.

Everything is new and exciting and the city is so _diverse._ Differences are embraced, dreams are made. London is the Hollywood of England.

Of course, a month later reality sets in and Zayn Malik becomes a (he still shudders from head to toe at the phrase his mother still often uses when he blathers on about _dreams_ this and _dreams_ that) _statistic_.

A teen with a dream that’d crumbled under the weight of the real world, namely _London_ , too proud to go back home with his tail between his legs and too dignified to admit he’d been a little silly to believe anything was possible and too noble to confess he had in actual fact, “ _become a number_ ”. But that is not the trouble, no. Dreams can be renewed. Renamed. Rescued, even. No, the trouble with Zayn Malik is how he deals with the burden of renewing and renaming and rescuing.

Like a child caught and scolded for having his hand in the cookie jar, he _sulks_. He _wallows._ He becomes damned near _insufferably moody._

Nowadays, Zayn Malik tends to search for the answers to his problems at the bottoms of bottles of whiskey or wine, and in endless books written on the disgustingly hipster subject of Philosophy. Three bottles of Jack Daniels in – and half the shelf in his local library – and he’s no closer to finding the answers he’d first hoped the cracks in the walls of sky high architecture and the rust of bronze statues would hold.

But, being the creature of habit he is, he will no doubt come back tomorrow with a wiped clean slate, full of a naïve hope that an identity crisis can be solved with alcoholic substances and books older than his mother and father combined.

He’ll sneak the bottles in, wrapped in brown paper and tucked away in his backpack. He’ll sit in the forgotten section of the library where other statistics with crumbled dreams go to drown their sorrows in angst ridden literature and questionable theories on The Origins of Life and search for elusive answers in even more elusive bottles of alcohol. He’ll pass out on the floor and wake up hours later, and climb out of the back window he left ajar this morning, just narrowly avoiding hitting his head on every branch of the tree that partially covers said window.

Only, when he gets back to his apartment tonight, there’ll be something waiting that will force him to change his habits, only slightly mind, but maybe it’ll be enough. Maybe it’ll lighten the burden. Maybe it’ll even solve his identity crisis.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to chapter this thing but I couldn't resist the update! Ugh.

He’s been home for a little under an hour. A fucking _hour._

A very heavy handed someone has been rather rudely beating the absolute light, shite, and life out of his door – _which is already hanging onto its rusting hinges like a fucking lifeline, if you are quite finished thank you very kindly_ \- for a full twenty three minutes of that hour so Zayn decides it might be time to confront whoever it is. Possibly with a swift punch to the throat. Or a katana to the shins.

Zayn opens the squeaky door, ready and raring to go with around fifty five insults and all ten knuckles when he is greeted with a large sweaty fist shoved into his collarbone, grubby fingers clamping around the low collar of his vest. The wind is knocked out of him for all of a second, before he’s blinking rapidly in surprise. For all his preparation, it is blindingly obvious that Zayn doesn’t _actually_ own a katana. He’s wispy and well balanced and maybe even light on his toes but he doesn’t have the slightest fucking clue how to use any of it to his advantage.

The surprise in question comes in the form of one, very large, very angry looking landlord.

Simon Cowell wears his jeans too high and his shirts are too white and open, exposing his hairy chest, and the hair on his head is sort of square? But it’s parted in the middle. And he looks utterly ridiculous and maybe Zayn wouldn’t be absolutely terrified of him right now if the look in his eyes wasn’t positively murderous.

“Where’s my rent money, Malik?” he snarls out, lips curling over his Hollywood white teeth, the ridiculously huge ring on his middle finger ( _honestly it could pass as a fucking knuckle duster and it makes Zayn shudder that it’s absolutely possible that out there, somewhere, some poor chap has the roaring face of a lion embedded in his cheekbone or ribs_ ) digging into his throat.

“I told you, Si, I don’t have it till Monday,” Zayn says coolly, trying to wriggle from Simon’s grip. But Simon’s got at least seventy pounds and forty years on him. This would be a totally unfair fight and completely uncalled for and violence is never the answer unless someone else is on the receiving end.

“Which Monday is this? The Monday after I’m laid in the fucking ground? Because you’ve said that every day since you moved in here, you little shit! And out of sheer human decency, I’ve let it slide. But not anymore,” The grip on Zayn’s vest tightens and murderous eyes darken. Zayn thinks of the very sharp, very shiny, very big meat cleaver Simon confiscated from a tenant just yesterday, and yes, you guessed it, _fucking shudders_.

“What’re you saying?” Zayn narrows his eyes, hands still clawing ineffectively at Simons much larger ones, blinking rapidly as he tries to stave off his thoughts on all the ways Simon could actually kill him with said confiscated cleaver and get away with it.

“I’m saying get out,” Simon says calmly, although his actions sort of contradict him. Before Zayn knows what’s happening, he’s being hauled from his doorway and slammed into the nearest wall, Simon taking his place in the rickety frame as Zayn’s spine rattles.

“What?” Zayn’s not sure he heard correctly. Or maybe he did and he’s just imagining that loud buzzing sound in his ears like he normally does whenever Simon talks.

“Get your scrawny little arse out of my apartment block or so help me God!” Absently, Zayn thinks the title _Lord_ , fits well. Simon is a dick, but he is also the Lord of the Land. So.

“Alright _alright_ , fuck. I’m going. You won’t let me stay another couple of nights then, I’m assuming?”

“No,” Simon crosses his arms over his chest, fixes Zayn with a glare that could send even Satan himself galloping away on his cloven feet with his pointed tail between his legs.

“Prick,” Zayn mutters, turning away.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Because Zayn might be brave, but he’s not _stupid._

 “Well, get your shit and go. Be gone by morning. That’s all I’m giving you,”

-

Zayn has been unceremoniously chucked from his apartment, is in the most literal sense _in the gutter but looking at the stars_ , and has been given until morning to sort his shit out. So naturally, his course of action is to stomp down the stairs, taking extra care to stomp extra hard on that one stair that groans like a brothel whore, and sit on the curb outside with his elbows on his knees, hair deconstructed and drooping over his face ever the epitome of brooding, and _sulk_.

Fucking sulk like a child.

Zayn is just a sulky person. There’s a lot of lung deflating sighs and swearing in every language he knows taking place and it’s only when he’s relieving a cigarette from its cardboard prison and is about to light it, that he notices he is not alone in his sighing and swearing. To his right, are two boys. A blonde one and a brown haired one.

It’s the blonde one that’s swearing and sighing as he lies on the concrete, half on the road half on the pavement and in the half light of the orange streetlamp it’d sound almost as melodramatic as Zayn if it wasn’t so...chirpy.

It’s like, despite lying on the curb in the fucking cold, beneath a clear night sky in the middle of Winter or whatever season it is now ( _they’ve all just blurred into one, lately, a perk of living in London_ ) the blonde is still _happy_. Despite the numerous people – _and honestly, why are people even out at this time of night, really now it’s what Wednesday?_ \- stepping over him with looks of disgust and maybe even a little intrigue and a lot of pity, he’s _still happy_.

He greets them all however unsavoury with a cheeky grin that reveals braces, grabs their ankles or tugs on shoelaces if he’s fast enough, if he feels he can get away with it. He just barks out a laugh when he gets caught, head thrown back wildly like a Disney villain and blue eyes glinting in the dim light. He’s talking animatedly, all hand gestures and head nodding like one of those funny little dogs Zayn sees on car dashboards and he just seems _alive._

Everything about him thrums, sends shockwaves and vibrations through the cool air. He’s laughing and sighing and swearing in one go and he’s so ridiculous Zayn just wants to laugh.

The brown haired one is staring. Just staring.

There’s no pretence, no guilt there; he’s sitting crossed legged and hunched over slightly, body twisted in full to face Zayn head on. His plain teeshirt looks to be about two sizes too big and it’s drooping low where he’s absently rubbing at his collarbone and revealing a tattooed chest.

The hair on his head is all loose chestnut curls and waves that fall over his forehead and even from this distance, Zayn can tell his eyes are a deep green. They’re fixated on Zayn, unmoving, unblinking, owlishly wide. He might be the polar opposite of his companion, all slow and steady and deliberately paying little attention. The boy watches curiously as Zayn locks their eyes, blows smoke rings up into the night air.

And, just because he can, he makes a point of licking his lips obscenely slow and winking with a smile that pulls the left side of his lip upwards. The brown haired boy blushes a furious pink that clouds his milky skin like watercolours and turns away for a second, but then his eyes are right back on Zayn, watching him.

“Haz. Harry. _Hazz_ \- oh, found some new _eyecandy_ have ya? Oi mate, got a light?” And in a second, the blonde is on his feet, towering over Zayn and Zayn is handing him his treasured Zippo and the blonde is smirking and plonking himself down next to Zayn. “M’Niall,” he says proudly, Irish twang hitting Zayn right in the chest, smile wide even with the cigarette tucked into the corner of his lips. He’s wearing a varsity vest and a snapback with torn jeans and Supras and goddamn if Zayn’s ever seen anyone who makes sporty clothing look fucking sexy. _And he’s Irish, God_. His biceps flex as he shakes Zayn’s hand roughly, calloused fingertips brushing Zayn’s own paint-stained ones. “Didn’t see you there, mate, ‘sup?”

“ _Niall_ ,” the other boy warns, reaching out towards the blonde.

“Clamp it Haz, he’s not gunna give me a lighter an’ then fuckin’ kill me, _God_ ,” Haz - _or, Harry to Zayn because Haz is so informal and they’re nowhere near that stage yet, bloody hell_ \- retracts his arm, sits on his palms.

“I’m sorry?” Zayn is a little taken aback, to tell the truth. Do murderers often sit on curbs outside apartment blocks and just hand people their Zippo fucking lighters? Zayn hopes not.

“Harold here thinks I’m too trusting,”

“You’re like a fucking Bichon Frise,” Harry bites out the words, shakes his head with nothing short of a fond smile. He looks younger when he smiles, frown lines vanished, replaced by dimples that look as though they’ve been carved into his mouth.  For all of a second he’s boyish, free.

“So? Not dead yet am I,” Niall clucks his tongue, turns to Harry with his eyebrows raised and blows a cloud of smoke in his face teasingly before pouting his lips.

“Key word being _yet_ , Niall,” Harry’s own lips are pursed, but he’s moved much closer, a rather large hand fisting Niall’s vest at the base of his spine.

“Pipe down, I’m makin’ friends!”

“I saw him first,” Zayn watches on incredulously, the bickering easy and unfolding before him as though he’s not there. As though they trust him to _pretend_ he’s not there.

“And?”

“And I bagsied him,”

“Well you were too fuckin’ moony eyed to actually do anythin’ ‘bout it, weren’t ya? Snooze ya lose, Curlylocks”

“Uhm…” Because apparently words with only one syllable and three letters are the only type Zayn can form right now. It’s safe to say that even though this is the curb outside _his_ apartment block, he feels a little out of place. 

“Oh, yeah! So. ‘Sup?” Niall has somehow managed to wriggle free from Harry’s grip and is now sitting extra close to Zayn, blue _blue_ eyes fixed on him, sparkling.

“Do I have to tell you?” Zayn wrinkles his nose and Niall snorts although he doesn’t seem too offended. In fact his smile only widens till Zayn thinks it might split off his face.

“No, but you should,” he says, shooting a quick glance to Harry for confirmation who just nods, curls bouncing, obviously eager to delve into Zayn and figure out his murdering tactics. Of which Zayn has zilch.

“Why?”

“Sharing is caring or some shit, y’know?” Niall shrugs, takes a sharp inhale and lies back so he’s resting on his forearms.

“Alright,”

“Well? Go on then,”

“I just got booted out of my apartment,”

“Snap!” Niall dives up to clap him on the back, face splitting grin there again on his pink lips, “So did we. Well actually we got booted out last week but we’ve been stayin’ with mates. But they’re movin’ out now so it’s a little hectic, they said we can move in wi’ ‘em when they’re sorted. Been sleepin’ the day away in front of Maccy’s haven’t we Hazza,”

“You know the library just round the corner is always open, right? The window ‘round back, it’s probably way warmer too, y’know..if you were gunna be on the streets any longer”

“Well bless your fucking soul, ain’t you a saint! Cheers mate, didn’t even think of that, did we Haz?” Niall elbows Harry in the ribs, grinning for the millionth time in ten minutes. Or maybe it hasn’t left his face yet. Zayn’s not too sure.

“I did,”

“No you didn’t,”

“Yeah I did,”

“I don’t remember,”

“That’s because you’re a toolbag and you forget everything I say,” Harry shoves at Niall, the banter returning, and maybe fifteen minutes ago Zayn might have shrunk away from it all, done what they asked of him without words. _Pretend you’re not here, we do this all the time._ Instead he sits back, pulls out a metaphorical bag of popcorn, enjoys the show.

“Whatever, treat me nice remember, or you won’t be getting’ that lukewarm coffee you always insist on having, you particular bastard,”

“So why did you guys get thrown out?” The curiosity has been building from the moment he noticed them and he’d be lying if he said otherwise, so it was only a matter of time before he asked.

“We..erm..we’re. We’re loud.”  The watercolour blush is back staining Harry’s skin in hues of pink and murky red and it’s painfully obvious he’s embarrassed.

Embarrassed? About being loud? “Loud? What like – like music and telly and stuff?”

“Stuff, yeah…” Harry replies with a cough in his throat, eyes widening at Niall in search of confirmation, anything, as the blonde is uncharacteristically silent, just observing. But then his grin is out in full force as Harry’s eyes grow wider, wider, _wider._

“What Harry’s tryin’ ta say mate, is that we get pretty vocal when I’m fuckin’ ‘im into the mattress, don’t ya Haz,” says Niall, voice dropping low and husky towards the end of his sentence. The hand he’s not leaning on snakes its way up Harry’s thigh, fingertips coming up to linger just beneath the waistband of his jeans. His fingertips are slowly disappearing beneath the fabric and already Harry is making little breathy sounds that make Zayn just want to _do something_ other than stare.

“Oh well. Can’t you gag him?”  he says offhandedly, voice as shaken as Harry looks. In a flash Niall’s hand zips away, clapping Zayn’s back again and Harry’s breathing returns to normal with a long exhale that makes his lips tremble.

“Nice idea mate!”

“It’s a horrific idea, actually,”

“Oh lighten up, you sound like Liam!”


End file.
